10
Despite picking my capstone focus, I’ve yet to make progress.
I need to get out of the apartment. I need to do something productive, something that isn’t staring at a screen.
Ophelia’s the one who ends up saving me. Apparently her ex-girlfriend’s new girlfriend (oof) is featuring some of her work at a gallery in Chelsea on Friday night, and it’s the grand opening, and “I don’t know anything about gallery art, Ely. Please, it’s going to be so embarrassing.”
I’d texted Wyatt to ask if he knew anything about this place, and to my surprise, he wrote back almost immediately and said he’d gotten an invitation and would be there.
Maybe we’ll run into each other, he said, and I keep playing those words in my mind on a loop.
Maybe we’ll run into each other. As if he hopes that we will.
It’s an obnoxious commute because everything is an obnoxious commute from Queens. Ophelia, next to me, seems anxious somehow—she keeps tilting her head toward her window reflection like she’s unhappy with what she finds there.
But when she finally speaks, it’s not at all what I expect.
“Do you still write?” she says, turning to look at me instead of the window.
“What?”
She shrugs. “You wrote X-Men fan fiction back in the day. Do you still write?”
“Not really,” I say. The answer is actually not at all. “I feel like I could only write in someone else’s universe with characters that were already plotted out for me. I could never come up with a whole book on my own. Too much pressure. What about you?”
Ophelia catches one of her thin lilac braids in her hand, loops the hair around her fingers and tugs it taut. “I was never a writer. I’m more of an illustrator.”
Both my brows go up. “Really? How have we not talked about this? Do you make fan art? What fandom?”
“Not anymore,” she says. “I’m kind of…doing my own thing now. I’ve been selling prints on Etsy and doing freelance graphic design work. I actually got this gig to design the new bottle labels for a major liquor company. I’ve been working on my samples, but you know….”
“Holy shit. That’s so cool. Can I see?”
Ophelia laughs and covers her eyes with one hand. “Oh god. I mean. I guess, if you want. I should probably get some second opinions before yeeting this out into the universe anyway. Especially from a fellow artist.”
“I don’t know the first thing about graphic design,” I warn her.
“You still have an artist’s eye, though. You know what looks good and what doesn’t.”
I beckon with both hands for her phone, and after another brief moment’s hesitation, she musters the courage to pass it over.
The design is clearly half-finished, the line work all done but the coloring and shading still incomplete. The name of the gin brand is in block letters, surrounded by weaving vines and a burst of wildflowers. My first thought is Wow, that’s a major fucking break. My second thought is This is really, really good.
“I love it,” I say, pinching the screen to zoom in closer on one of the flowers, a vibrant pink dahlia. “This is incredible. How did you even land something like this? You must be a really big deal.”
She’s got her hands all twisted together in her lap, spinning one of her rings—a big opal spider—around her middle finger over and over again. “Not really. It’s my first deal. If they like it…I mean, if this actually ends up on the special edition labels, it could launch my whole career. But they might take one look and decide they hate it, and then I’m back to square one.”
“They aren’t gonna hate it.”
“You think so?” She finally stops spinning the ring in favor of pressing both hands flat against her thighs, her smile quavering and tremulous. “I’ve been at it for ages. It was actually due last week, but I just…I had to get an extension on the deadline. Which is never a great look.”
“I’m sure they understand. Sometimes life happens.”
Ophelia doesn’t look so convinced. “I’m not so sure about that. I want to make a good first impression. But I couldn’t turn in something that I wasn’t proud of. You know?”
Of course I know. Just as I know exactly why Ophelia missed that deadline. She wants this so bad it’s devouring her from the inside. And so she wants it to be perfect.
As long as she doesn’t turn in the work, she never has to find out if her art is good enough.
Analysis paralysis—or at least that’s what Shannon called it. When you spend so much time worrying whether something is good enough that you never actually finish it in the first place.
I wonder if Wyatt ever experiences that.
Thinking about Wyatt sparks heat in the pit of my stomach all over again. Maybe we’ll run into each other. And it’s so hard to resist the urge to pull out my phone and text him and ask what time he’s going…just so I can make sure I’m still around when he gets there.
The gallery is one of the fancy ones, the kind where people are mostly buying the art to launder their money and avoid paying taxes. I’d say I hate it on principle, but let’s be real—I’d club a baby seal to have my work displayed in a place like this. (Principles do not, in fact, pay bills.)
Ophelia, seeing the look on my face, rolls her eyes. “It’s obnoxious, I know. But apparently Carolina is really good, so I’m trying not to prejudge.”
“I believe it. Getting into a place like this is a big deal.”
There’s an actual, real-life art bouncer at the door. He’s not checking names on a list or anything—even schmancy places like this are still open to the public—but he is leering at everyone as if to say, Touch anything with your pleb hands, and I’ll cut them off.
“What, something in my teeth?” I mutter to Ophelia as we sidle past him, which earns me a snicker (Ophelia) and a glare (art bouncer).
The ex-girlfriend’s girlfriend’s exhibition is a strange one. Mostly paintings, spaced evenly along the ecru walls and perfectly lit. But there are some mixed-media pieces as well, like the green canvas that serves as a vertical platter bearing a collection of ivory bones: half rabbit, says the caption, half hawk. Or the one that features red paint on red paint, slithering in globs and clots down the canvas. A careless scrap of fabric dangles from one corner, trapped by a wad of near-black acrylic.
“I’m gonna go say hi to Patty and Carolina,” Ophelia says, and I nod, too fixated on the gore painting to do much else.
I peer closer, my hands locked behind my back to help me resist the almost-overwhelming urge to touch, to see if the paint is still wet. It looks visceral, like the product of a fresh kill.
“I had a nightmare that looked like this once,” says a familiar voice, and I jerk my head up to meet Wyatt’s gaze.
I should say something clever and insightful about the piece, but of course my troll brain has other ideas. “You’re actually here!” A split second later, embarrassment catches up with me. “Sorry. I mean…Hi. Of course you’re here. And same.”
At least he smiles, even if I suspect he’s just indulging me. “Sometimes I exist in places besides campus and gay clubs. Do you know the artist?”
“Only in degrees of Kevin Bacon. She’s my roommate’s ex-girlfriend’s new girlfriend.”
“I feel like I need to be better at math to process what you just said.”
“Or at least be really good at those riddles where you have to figure out how many daughters a man has based off their eye colors.”
“Hate those.”
We examine the painting again. It’s honestly hard to look away, like trying to ignore someone bleeding to death right in front of you.
“What do you think it means?” Wyatt says.
I tilt toward the canvas. “I don’t know. It’s giving menstrual blood. Are those actual human hairs?”
Wyatt moves closer; his shoulder grazes mine, just for a moment, as he leans in. “Maybe it’s a still life of someone having their head smashed open with a brick.”
I snort, then quickly press my hand over my mouth and glance around to see if anyone noticed. Big names come to these. Big names like, well, Wyatt Cole…although he certainly isn’t judging me. He catches my gaze and winks, and my heart does this little flutter that is both expected and completely, damningly inappropriate.
It’s getting really hard to stay mad at him.
“Mr. Cole?” someone says, and we both turn to find a slim woman in a pencil skirt and hipster glasses. She smiles and gestures behind her at a knot of people near the bone piece, all of them watching Wyatt with ill-disguised hope written across their faces. “Sorry to interrupt, but I would love to introduce you to a few people, if you don’t mind…?”
Wyatt actually hesitates, which I’m tempted to read too far into. But then he nods, says, “Of course,” and passes me an apologetic glance before the pencil skirt leads him away. I watch the social climbers envelop him into their nest like magpies who’ve found something shiny.
I can’t keep staring at this one painting all night, no matter how violent it is, so I make myself wander. The rest of Carolina’s work is similar, all variations on a homicidal theme. I’m starting to wish I knew this girl, because she seems weird and I like that.
I’m examining another intensely morbid piece when someone steps up beside me, close enough that I can smell their cedarwood cologne. I all but assume it’s Wyatt, have already opened my mouth to make a snarky comment about roadkill—only it isn’t Wyatt at all.
“Can you imagine hanging this in your dining room?” the man says, nodding toward the canvas. “It’d certainly be a conversation starter.”
I stare at him for a moment, trying to figure out if he’s someone I’m supposed to recognize on sight. Probably. Feels like this place is full of Big Deals.
“I’m not inviting anyone over who doesn’t find possum appetizing,” I say. “I have standards.”
It earns a laugh, at least. I examine this newcomer, trying to place him. He’s dressed as if he just came from a board meeting. Maybe he’s an agent or something?
“I don’t think I’ve seen you around before,” the guy says, shifting away from the painting—toward me. As if I were the art. “I can’t say I have a knack for faces, but I’d remember yours.”
Heat flushes up the back of my neck fast and I glance away, toward the canvas, hoping the fall of my hair might hide the color in my cheeks. Maybe I’m not used to being flirted with. Or maybe it’s just the venue and the guy. I’m not used to guys dressed like that flirting with me.
“I’m new in town,” I say, and finally wrangle my nerves enough to look back at him. “I’m studying at Parker.”
Both his brows go up. “Ah. Excellent program. What field?”
“Photography.”
“I’ll have to be on the lookout for your first gallery opening,” he says. Those pale eyes of his are twinkling. My lord, he’s good.
I’m tempted to wrap my arms around my stomach, a reflexive, insecure gesture that would say far more about me than I want to confess. I have to concentrate hard on keeping my arms loose and lax at my sides. “Maybe. We’ll see. New York standards are pretty high.”
“Of course they are. But you got into Parker, so you clearly have what it takes.” His smile widens, showing teeth. “I’m so sorry, I forgot my manners. I’m Henrik Andersson.”
“Ely Cohen.”
We shake hands, and his lingers on mine just a beat too long before finally falling away. “So, Ely Cohen,” Henrik says, “perhaps you’ll let me take you out for a drink sometime. You can show me your portfolio.”
He’s standing there, smiling at me and waiting for an answer while I try to figure out whether he’s joking. And, if he isn’t, whether I should say yes. I don’t know this man. He’s good-looking enough that he’s probably a secret serial killer. On the other hand, escaping a vicious serial killer would be great inspiration for a photo collection.
I’m still trying to figure out how to respond when a hand brushes my shoulder; I turn to find Wyatt there, a pair of seltzers in hand. “Hey,” he says, passing me one. “They had mango flavor.”
It’s somewhat gratifying to see someone as clean-cut and put together as Henrik Andersson on the back foot. Both his eyebrows have gone up, his body language immediately closing off as he takes a step away from me, putting a more collegial distance between us. “Wyatt Cole,” he says. “What a surprise. I haven’t seen you at one of these in a while.”
“Henrik,” Wyatt says, smiling as easily as ever. “I try to see other human faces from time to time. I usually regret it.”
Henrik laughs even as Wyatt’s expression remains perfectly mild and unchanged. “Is Ely one of your students?”
“No. I wish I could take credit for her talent, but…”
I cover my own raised brows with a quick sip of mango seltzer. No? So he doesn’t consider me his student anymore? What does that mean?
“A commendation from Wyatt Cole is as good as gold these days,” Henrik tells me with a tiny nod. “Like I said, I’ll be on the lookout for your next show. It was nice to meet you, Ely. Wyatt, I’ll see you around, I’m sure….”
He wanders off, leaving me standing there next to Wyatt, still trying to decide what I’m supposed to take away from the whole interaction. Because it kind of feels like Wyatt just cockblocked this guy.
Not his student.
Shut up, brain.
“Soooo,” I say to fill the silence with something, anything. “Who was that?”
Wyatt lifts his seltzer cup, and I obediently clink mine with his in a mock toast. “That,” he says, “was Henrik Andersson. He’s a curator at PS1.”
Curator of more than just art, seemed like. Because I have a feeling showing him my portfolio over drinks wouldn’t have ended with me having my own exhibit at one of the best modern-art museums in the country.
“Did you literally just prevent me from talking to a MoMA curator?”
I sip my seltzer. The mango flavor is underwhelming.
Wyatt’s face goes as red as the period painting. “I— Oh god. Uh. I can go and get him to come back…?”
I laugh and shake my head. “No. Please don’t. I’m ninety-nine percent sure he wasn’t interested in my art.”
“Ely, how many times do we have to go over this? You’re good. You’re really good. Your work is raw and emotional in a way that a lot of artists are afraid to be. It’s what makes your pictures so…consuming. And if he doesn’t realize that, then he’s an idiot,” says Wyatt.
It’s sweet enough that I’m almost willing to forgive him for all the other bullshit.
Almost.
We both drink our seltzers in silence, staring at the painting to avoid staring at each other.
After several seconds have passed, long enough to let the tension thicken to the point of awkwardness, I say: “Maybe I’ll do something like this for my capstone project. Instead of taking pictures of people’s outsides, take pictures of people’s insides.”
“Please don’t,” Wyatt says, and just like that, we’re back to normal.
I have the compulsion to try to keep him here with me for the rest of the time we’re at the gallery. A terrible idea for a lot of reasons, not least because it’d be incredibly obvious what I was trying to do.
But he doesn’t seem that keen to move on either. He lingers by my side as we shift to the next piece, even if we don’t say much. I wonder if he’s actually paying as close attention to the art as he seems to be, his eyes narrowed slightly as they fixate on a sculpture made out of what looks like skin and fingernail clippings.
The art is interesting enough that I shouldn’t get distracted. But that proves to be impossible when I’m standing next to Wyatt. I’m keenly attuned to every time he shifts his weight from one foot to another—every time he takes a particularly deep breath—when he lifts one hand to draw it back through his hair.
I know how soft that hair feels. I twisted it around my knuckles while Wyatt went down on me.
Maybe my capstone project should be a reflection on the subtle embarrassment of being turned on in a public place.
I glance sidelong at Wyatt, half hoping to find him looking back at me. Maybe if I did, I’d murmur something low and provocative and watch him flush. Maybe I’d reach for his hand, or he would for mine, and we’d find somewhere better—somewhere private—to discuss art.
But unfortunately Wyatt really does seem captivated by the toenails, so I’m stuck here.
Wanting.
Ophelia finds us a few minutes later, hooking her arm through mine and bumping our hips together. “Hey. You ready to head out?”
“Sure.” I turn my gaze back toward Wyatt and offer him a small smile. “See you next week, I guess.”
“Remember what I said. No gratuitous gore in the capstone project. I mean it.”
“No promises,” I say, and then I let Ophelia tug me away, abandoning my half-consumed shitty seltzer on a nearby table.
Ophelia leans in as we head out the door to whisper: “Who was that? He’s hot. Was I supposed to make you leave with me? Or do you want to go back in there? I’m not trying to pussy block you if you wanted to stay.”
Pussy block. Oh lord. Is that actually a term people use now? “That was Wyatt. You know. The…guy.”
“The guy?” Ophelia starts, but my implication dawns on her almost immediately. “Wait. Oh my god. That’s him? That’s the sexy professor? Ely, holy shit, go back in there immediately!”
“No, absolutely not, nope. You saved me at just the right time. I was only gonna embarrass myself if you left me there.”
“Ely!”
I shake my head firmly. “I can’t. I’m serious. I’m trying to respect his boundaries.”
“Is he trying to respect his own boundaries? Because he looked pretty happy to stick around right next to you the whole time.”
Did he? I try to think back over our interaction, teasing apart my memory of his facial expressions, his body language. Was he reluctant to see me go? Or is that my wishful thinking imposing on him what I want to see?
Maybe a little bit of both.